'Very smart, dear, now, come along and I'll take you home.'
'Thank you.'
She led the way from the hospital at a surprising pace, down the hill, past the supermarket, up Goat Street, along Rampart Street, Golden Gate Lane and finally to Blackdog Street. Though, she'd swapped her wellingtons for a pair of trainers, the rest of her, apart from the absence of a pinafore, was as I remembered: a green headscarf that didn't quite match her woolly, yellow cardigan and a voluminous, brown and cream checked skirt. The sun shone on my arrival at Hobbes's.
'Here we are.' Unlocking the door to number 13, she stepped inside.
Taking a deep breath, I followed as she led me upstairs, opening the door into the end room. I was pleasantly surprised, if puzzled. It was a good size, with bare white walls, low black beams, a polished wood floor, a dressing table with a stool and a small wardrobe. What it lacked, was a bed.
'The old fellow,' she said, 'asked me to make up a bed for you. I haven't had time yet, but all the bits are in the attic.'
I offered to go up and fetch them down but she said some of the planking was rather ropey and might be dangerous.
'I'll do it, dear, and it won't take five minutes.'
She was right. It took the best part of an hour because, having hauled herself up the foldaway ladder into the attic, she discovered an extended family of mice had taken up residence, and took up the pursuit with gusto and a wooden tennis racquet. I could hear her feet thumping above, interspersed with occasional thwacks as she found a target. At any minute, I expected to see her plunge through the ceiling. Eventually, everything went quiet: too quiet. I waited a couple of minutes.
'Umm … Mrs Goodfellow? Are you alright?' Not a sound.
Hesitating for a few more seconds, I started up the ladder. The faint light in the attic was squeezing through the bars of a tiny window, dust dancing in its beam, and I glimpsed wonderful things in the instant my head poked through the hatch. Hearing a thwack and a mad cackle, I lost my grip, stretching my length on the landing rug.
A wizened face poked through the hatch upside down. 'Got the little devil! Are you alright, dear?'
I nodded, standing up, feeling a little groggy.
'Can you catch with that bandage on?'
'Umm … yes well, probably.'
'Good,' she said, 'catch these.'
She patted a small brown object with her racquet. It twisted through the air and, despite fumbling, I grabbed it before it hit the floor. It was a limp mouse.
'Next one.' She patted another.
In the end, I had eight little bodies in my hands. I stared at them, aghast, not knowing what to do as she slid down the ladder.
'Better hurry,' she said. 'Let's get 'em to the park before they wake up.'
They were already stirring when we got there, one taking a speculative nibble at my finger. I released them and they disappeared into a hedge and began a frantic rustling. I sucked away a bead of blood as Mrs Goodfellow took my arm.
'Come along, dear. It's time I had you in bed.'
A smart, young woman, wheeling a child in a pushchair, gave me a most peculiar look. Though I tried a tentative smile, she turned away as Mrs Goodfellow propelled me back to Blackdog Street.
Once we were inside, I watched amazed as she disappeared into the attic and emerged with bits of iron, slats of wood and a mattress, building the bed in five minutes, making it up with sheets, blankets and an eiderdown. It all looked antique, yet was clean and smelled of fresh lavender.
'There you are, dear,' she said. 'I hope you'll be comfortable. You'll find more clothes in the wardrobe. Help yourself.'
'Thank you. Umm … whose are they?' I knew they weren't Hobbes's; I doubted whether he'd even be able to pull the trousers over his arms.
'Yours, if you want 'em.' She grinned her toothless grin. 'They belonged to my husband but he doesn't need 'em anymore.'
'You're very kind.' I assumed Mr Goodfellow had passed away.
'Kind? Not really. It's more of an advanced payment for when you let me have your teeth.'
As I smiled, I noticed the gleam in her eyes, examining my mouth like a connoisseur. I snapped the display shut.
'I can't wait to get my hands on that lot,' she said as she left the room.
I sat on the bed and tried to get my thoughts in order.
'Liver? What about liver?'
I flinched and leaped to my feet as she leaned towards me. 'You can't have my liver!'
She laughed. 'I don't want your liver, I was asking if you like to eat liver, because not everyone does, you know. I'm planning a liver and bacon casserole for supper and was wondering if you like good, old-fashioned food.'
'Oh,' I said, ashamed, 'it sounds lovely. Are you sure Hobbes … are you sure Inspector Hobbes won't mind?'
'Mind? Of course he won't. He'll be glad of the company. He doesn't get too many visitors, more's the pity.'
'Well,' I said, because I had not yet given food a thought, 'in that case, I would be delighted.' I made an attempt at a smile.
'Ooh,' she said peering up at me, 'you do have a really lovely smile. I can hardly wait.'
I forced a laugh, which sounded rather hysterical. 'Well, let's hope it won't be for many years.'
She cackled and patted my arm. 'Lovely smile, lovely smile.' She walked away. 'Likes liver, too. Lovely boy, lovely smile.'
I sat on the bed, trembling. In happier times I would sometimes sit and think. On this occasion I just sat and stared at the wall, my mind cowering in a dark corner of my skull, refusing to come out.
I must have been there for a couple of hours when I heard the tortured whine of a car's engine, followed by the sound of brakes, and I knew Hobbes had returned. Gulping, taking a deep breath, I went downstairs.
5
'Good afternoon,' Hobbes boomed. 'Has Mrs Goodfellow made you comfortable?'
'Yes,' I said, 'very comfortable, thank you.' Truthfully, she made me feel exceedingly uncomfortable, but it would have been churlish to say so.
'Good.' He rubbed his hands together, making a sound like someone vigorously wiping their feet on a coconut doormat. 'What are you going to do with yourself for the rest of the day?'
He had me there. What was I going to do? Obviously, I needed the Editorsaurus to amend the cheque, yet I didn't feel up to confronting him just then, if ever. I supposed I ought to sign on as unemployed, except I guessed that, being a Saturday, the job centre would be shut, and, besides, I hadn't the foggiest where it was or what to do. I wondered about taking myself round town to see if there were any vacancy ads in shop windows, though I wasn't sure anyone did that sort of thing anymore.
'I don't know,' I admitted.
'In which case, how about coming with me, if you're still interested in police work now you're not working for the Bugle?'
I pondered for a moment. I had more than a few misgivings, but then I realised he'd shown me things that had rocked my perception of the world and, deep within, a seed of curiosity had sprouted. I was astonished to discover how much I wanted it to grow, for it might change my life, which, just then, felt like a great idea.
'I'd like that,' I said and, though a sensible part of me was screaming no, my new spirit of curiosity, proving more powerful, stifled it. 'And, if the Bugle doesn't want me, maybe I can go freelance.'
Hobbes, nodding approvingly, patted me on the back, knocking me to the floor, and helped me back to my feet. 'Take a seat. I've got a few things to tell you.' He indicated the sofa.
We sat side by side and he turned to me with a grin that might have revived my sensible part, had the scent of baking bread, wafting in from the kitchen, not soothed my nerves.
'I took another look into the grave the other night,' he said, 'and the box you'd been jumping around on was, in fact, a plastic wheelie bin, resting on the remains of the original coffin, which the ghouls had evidently broken into decades ago. However, the wheelie bin contained a fresh body. Well, fairly fresh.'
'Murder, then
?' The thought of how close I'd been to a corpse, not to mention how close I'd been to becoming one, made me feel sick. Fighting back the feeling, I forced myself to concentrate.
'Almost certainly, though let's not be too hasty.'
'It could hardly have been suicide.'
'No, I think we can rule out suicide.' He looked thoughtful. 'That's unless he was very inventive. It seems to me that, if someone wants to hide a body, where better than in a grave? It's the last place anyone would look for one and, if it hadn't been for us keeping an eye on those ghouls, someone would probably have got away with it. It still begs the question of why anyone would dig it up again.'
'Umm … whose body was it? You say it was a he?'
'He was an adult male and, apart from that, it's hard to tell. There was no ID or anything and his face was bashed in, so I've got our forensic lads checking dental records, DNA, prints and so on. The corpse's clothes were muddy, yet the mud wasn't the same as that in the graveyard. Plus, he was wearing wellington boots with worn soles.'
'Cheese and pickle?' said Mrs Goodfellow's shrill voice from behind.
Gasping, shocked by the suddenness of her voice and how silently she'd got there, I stared at her over my shoulder. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes glittering like a sparrow's.
'Would you boys like a cheese and pickle sandwich? Or are you going out for your dinner?'
'A sandwich would be lovely,' said Hobbes.
'It would be very nice,' I said, voice quavering to match hers.
'I'll do it right away. I expect you'll be hungry.'
She was correct. Hospital breakfasts are inadequate, at least for me. I turned back to Hobbes, expecting her to leave.
'Tea? Or coffee?' Her voice rang in my ear.
My heart jumped and I clutched my chest, which must have looked somewhat theatrical, yet was genuine. I had a sudden panic that my much-abused ticker was going to burst from my rib cage. Unexpected noises had always alarmed me and I seemed to be getting worse at dealing with them.
'Tea, please,' said Hobbes.
'Hahaha,' said I, nodding my head, 'and the same for me.'
She smiled and I watched her walk towards the kitchen, making sure she left the sitting room. Her startling appearances were doing me no good at all.
'With all the excitement recently,' said Hobbes, 'I haven't had time to interview Mr Roman's staff, so I thought we might do that this afternoon. Unfortunately, Superintendent Cooper has suggested I should concentrate on the grave case and let sleeping Mr Roman's lie. She believes it was just a minor burglary case, that I've already proved no one else was involved in Roman's death, and that there are more important cases to attend to.' He paused, looking thoughtful. 'The trouble is, I'm intrigued, because, though it may only have been a break-in, it led to suicide; I want to know why.'
'So, what are you going to do?'
'Interview Roman's staff, as I said.'
'Won't the superintendent be angry?'
'Not if I don't tell her.' He grinned. 'And I'm not really supposed to have you working with me now you've got the push from the Bugle. I'm not planning on telling her about that either.'
'Will there be any danger?'
'If we're lucky.'
Nodding, I wondered again why I'd agreed to go with him. Perhaps, I was crazy. More likely, I just wasn't good at saying no.
'Tell me,' I asked, as a thought occurred, 'what, exactly, is your job?'
He looked at me, obviously puzzled. 'I'm a police officer, a detective inspector to be precise.'
'I know that but, what I mean is, don't you get assigned to things like the flying squad, or traffic, or fraud, or something? That is to say, don't you have a speciality?'
Hobbes displayed his happy wolf grin. 'You sound just like my old Super. He would demand that I stuck to his orders, even when I pointed out that policing was policing and that I would always do whatever it took. He kept insisting that I was wilfully disobeying his orders, even when I pointed out how foolish they were.'
'Did he get mad?'
'Yes,' said Hobbes, 'he got quite mad in the end, poor chap. Still it was only when he took to throwing pointy cabbages at passers-by from the station roof that they had to take him away – not that they were much danger to anyone, because he'd over-boiled them.'
'You mean he literally went mad?' The news shocked and scared me. If Hobbes had been responsible for driving a police superintendent mad, what chance did I have of keeping my sanity? Of course, I'd already agreed to stay in his house and to continue working with him when I didn't need to, so already I wasn't acting entirely rationally. Thinking about it, I had, in the last few hours, been nearly buried alive by ghouls, burned in my own bedroom, and caught handfuls of live mice patted to me by an old lady in an attic. Perhaps there was no reason to fear going mad, maybe I had already tipped over the edge. I chuckled as Hobbes continued.
'Went mad? I don't know if he actually went mad, because the lads reckoned he must already have been mad to try and tell me what to do in the first place.'
'What about your new superintendent?'
'Superintendent Cooper is a very sensible woman and only makes suggestions and I can't wilfully disobey a suggestion. Besides, I think she's mostly happy to let me police in my own way.'
'Sensible indeed.' I knew I wouldn't care, or dare, to reprimand him.
'Your dinners are on the table,' Mrs Goodfellow piped up by my right ear.
'Aghh!' Springing lightly across the room, catching my foot on the coffee table, I stumbled against the standard lamp.
Hobbes caught the lamp before it fell and guffawed, shaking his head. 'By heck, Andy,' he said, wiping his eyes, 'your comic tumbling turn ought to be shown on the telly. Funniest thing I've seen since they took the old superintendent away.'
Mrs Goodfellow beaming, nudging me in the ribs, whispered, 'I'm glad to see you getting on so well with the old fellow. I haven't heard him laugh so much for months.'
After rubbing my bruised shin, I followed the laughter into the kitchen, Mrs Goodfellow reaching up and patting my back.
Still, there were compensations to staying at Hobbes's, as I discovered on the kitchen table. The old woman had prepared a huge plateful of sandwiches and, sitting down, I grabbed one from the top, took a bite and savoured the wonderful carnival of textures and flavours filling my mouth. Now, cheese and pickle sandwiches were not something I'd normally rave about, but, the crusty bread still being warm and fragrant from the oven, the primrose-yellow butter dripping through like honey, the cheese tasting tangy and sweet, and all cut to a satisfying thickness, then it was a meal fit for a king.
Mrs Goodfellow clicked her tongue and Hobbes frowned, gesturing for me to stand. He lowered his head. 'For what we are about to receive, may the Good Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.'
'Amen,' said Mrs Goodfellow.
I felt the blood rushing to my face.
'Don't worry,' said Hobbes, sitting and helping himself to a sandwich, 'you weren't to know our customs, but you will next time. Now, tuck in.'
I tucked in. The steaming mug of tea Mrs Goodfellow poured for me was excellent, too. Hobbes was well looked after and, evidently, so would I be during my stay. I quite forgot my embarrassment and my problems at that scrubbed table. Perhaps madness had something going for it.
Eventually Hobbes finished and pushed his chair back. 'Thank you,' he told his housekeeper, 'that was most excellent.'
'Yes, indeed,' I enthused, 'it was really good.'
She grinned gummily and blushed like a schoolgirl.
'Right, then,' said Hobbes, 'to business.'
'To business!' I raised my mug in a facetious toast.
A baffled frown wrinkled his forehead.
As he got up from the table and left the house, I followed, meek as a lamb, though the butterflies were, once again, taking wing in my stomach at the prospect of more of his driving. I was, however, spared, at least temporarily, for he led me down The Shambles in a brisk five-m
inute walk. Despite the pale sun shining in a watery sky, a fierce north-easterly wind obliterated any warmth and I was glad of my tweed suit, which, in addition to its insulating properties, must, I felt, be giving me a most distinguished air. When a couple of women chatting outside the church smiled as we walked by, my back straightened and my chin lifted, until self-doubt launched a counter attack: they'd probably smiled because I looked so ridiculous and old-fashioned. Yet there was no time to brood for Hobbes, shoulders hunched, shambling but surprisingly fast, was getting ahead of me. I took great, long, strides to keep up, stumbling on a cracked paving stone.
A portly youth smirked. 'Enjoy your trip?'
Ignoring him, I hurried after Hobbes, who having turned onto Up Way, entered the 'Bear with a Sore Head'. It was great to slam the door in the face of the biting wind and appreciate the log fire glowing from the far side, casting shadows against the low-beamed ceiling. Customers lounged in pairs or small groups around brass-rimmed tables, a shaven-headed barman in a gaudy silk waistcoat pulled a pint of cider for a red-faced, giggling girl, and a plump, pretty woman, probably in her late-forties, in a white apron, chatted to a tall, slim man in a smart, grey suit, who was leaning against the bar. He turned as we approached and stepped towards me, hand outstretched. It was bloody Phil.
Grinning, he shook my hand, squeezing my fingers, maintaining his grip for slightly longer than felt comfortable.
'Hiya, Andy. I hardly recognised you. Nice clothes.'
'Hello,' I said.
'I was very sorry to hear about your flat.' He smirked. 'It must have been a real bummer, and then losing your job! Rex might have been a bit kinder.'
'Thanks,' I said, hating his smug concern.
'Still, you're looking good and that suit really is something else, very much the country gent.'
I snarled internally. 'Did you enjoy the opera?' I asked, with a friendly smile.
'Not much. The tenor tended to sing flat and it turns out that poor Ingrid is allergic to lobster. We had to leave before the interval and she threw up all over me.'
'Poor girl,' I sympathised, concealing my delight.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 7
